


Tonquin Bay

by gayforroxane



Series: fernie, british columbia [2]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, M/M, TATTOOS!, this is just all fluff zero plot cause fuck that thats not what yall are here for, uhh super cute boys with a ton of description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15272082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: "Eds,” Richie breathed, and his voice carried with the seagulls. Eddie laid his board next to Richie’s and stepped up next to him, curling his arm around his waist and pulling him close. “It’s so beautiful.” It was the most obviously affected Eddie had ever seen him, his words hushed, clamped under the sunrise and the ocean and the press of his body against his boyfriend’s.or tons of description, way too much fluff, and many references to eddies colouring habits





	Tonquin Bay

**Author's Note:**

> this is for the lovely windy (tozier on ao3 and bevrichie on tumblr) yall should definitely read everything she writes shes incredible and an angel to boot 
> 
> now this is a fake surfing fic (no surfing) but speakslow is writing an AMAZING slowburn surfing au with richie and eddie and its gorgeous and lovely and super cute and yall should go give it some well deserved lovr

_ Things we said on top of the world, for windy  _

It was a bit of a climb to get to Tonquin Bay. 

Raised platforms and bridges linked the spaces between the trees, and entire sections of the wooden steps had rotten away or been taken over by the lanky, hungry vines of the climbing ivy. The wood was slick with the fog of the early morning, and their hair curled over their ears, stuck to their foreheads. The wooden stairs transitioned into carved rock, a steep, unsteady trail down to the beach, only made harder by the surfboards on both of their shoulders, the bags draped over their backs, their bare feet. 

It was early, not even six in the morning, and the bay was empty but for the tiny purple crabs crawling lazily along the water’s edge. Beneath their feet were hundreds of tiny trails, little rivers of runoff from the forest behind them, swollen with three weeks worth of rain. The sun was rising, and it cast the beach and the water in soft pink and dark purple, the water fading from dark blue to grey to match the incoming clouds. 

Richie set his board down and moved forward, letting his feet slip into the first few inches of the incoming waves, ignoring the cold of the water and just staring, mouth open, at the horizon and the unending slowly-becoming-orange ocean. In his black wetsuit, the heavy kind designed for winter surfing, Richie seemed taller and broader and stronger than he’d ever seemed. His shoulders and back were wide beneath the fabric and his legs long, strong feet to strong calves to curved, graceful thighs, and Eddie stared, transfixed. It wasn’t yet cold enough to warrant a hooded suit, and Richie’s hair tumbled out in wild curls around him, not yet confined to a bun at the top of his head. It brushed the tops of his shoulder blades, combed through with long fingers, tucked behind his ears absentmindedly. Against the commanding pastels of the slow sunrise, he looked beautiful and Eddie couldn’t move, his eyes trailing over his figure, caught in surprise by the wanting in the small of his back, beneath his fingernails. 

“Eds,” Richie breathed, and his voice carried with the seagulls. Eddie laid his board next to Richie’s and stepped up next to him, curling his arm around his waist and pulling him close. “It’s so beautiful.” It was the most obviously affected Eddie had ever seen him, his words hushed, clamped under the sunrise and the ocean and the press of his body against his boyfriend’s. 

Eddie hummed, very quietly, and Richie turned to him. His cheeks were pink and a little damp from the fog, and his huge brown eyes were fixed on the sun, flickering lazily to the ocean and to their feet, where cold water gathered. Freckles spotted his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. His mouth, small and pink, was wet with spit as he licked his lips, as he licked the pine smell of the fog off of them. Richie raised a hand to his cheek very slowly and turned Eddie towards him. Eddie looked up at him, half-lidded under thick, stuck-together eyelashes. 

The three words that every couple builds themselves up around hadn’t spilled from their mouths yet. Nearly a year into their relationship, and something skimmed their tongues and stopped them, kept the words on the soft skin of their cheeks, the calloused skin of their palms. 

Alice was full of them of both, now, her riveted seams bursting with Richie’s sketchbooks and canvases and paints, and Eddie’s notebooks, both of their computers, a new set of dishes, a new bedspread, a whole new person to squeeze into a home meant for one. Gertrude, the new, forest green Jeep Eddie had treated them to a few months before, smelled like Earl Grey Vanilla tea and black coffee. There were two travel mugs, now, instead of one. A rosary and a plushie of a heart hung from the rearview mirror. Their friends no longer spoke in terms of individuals - it was not Eddie’s Airstream, or Richie’s Jeep, it belonged to them both, to EddieandRichie, who were so wrapped up in one another their edges were beginning to stitch themselves together, into a patchwork blanket of upbringing and language and loving. 

Richie felt it, though. Even after that first time, the first, mind-blowing time they’d been together, when Eddie’s rough mouth and sharp teeth and biting hands had taken him apart and put him back together so many times he could hardly think. He felt it as they’d laid in Eddie’s bed, in a pile of pillows rucked up against Alice’s windows, and Eddie held Richie’s forearm in his lap, chewing on his lower lip as he tried to decide on what colours he wanted to claim Richie’s skin as, even if for a little bit. 

It became a hardfast tradition. Rough, stunning sex ended with Eddie’s felts against his skin. Even now, after a night of Eddie behind him, pinning his wrists to the bed, rutting forward in slow movements, breathing praise into Richie’s neck and his hair, beconning pleas from his lips, there was colour on his skin, between the lines of tattoos on his forearms. 

He shifted his weight on the sand and relished in the slight burn of the skin between his shoulder blades, a new tattoo, a cluster of three magnolias, big enough to span from one shoulder blade to the other. Bill had drawn it, sketched its delicate lines, the movement of the petals and leaves and delicate centres, and offered it to Richie with a shy duck of his head and a stuttering mouth, blushing as Richie smacked a hard kiss to his mouth and tugged him into a hug. It had been Eddie and Bill’s joint gift to him for his twenty-second birthday, a physical claim of the friends whose blood was watery with beer and coffee and years of love to come. 

Richie felt it in Eddie’s colouring and his cooking - scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and goat cheese and capers, more luxurious than Richie thought possible from a man who lived in an Airstream six months out of the year. He felt it when they spent a night telling each other about their childhoods, when he’d finally realized how strong Eddie was, how capable, how breathtaking. He felt it when Eddie lip synched to  _ The White Stripes  _ with every bone in his tiny body, when Eddie told him about meeting Ben, when he told him how old he was, all bated breath and nervous fingers, like his age was going to push Richie away from him, even though he already lived in each other’s lungs. (Learning that Eddie was thirty-two, ten-and-a-half years his senior had  _ done  _ something to him, something that led to him coming five times in the span of a couple of hours, breathless and shaking and begging for Eddie). 

He felt love for Eddie in all of his playlists and every cat video he watched on Instagram, in every conversation he had with his friends, in the tablespoon of honey he pours into his tea every morning, the new, organic toothpaste Eddie insist they use. 

When he was nineteen and recently heartbroken, his mother, a tall, thin woman, had sat him down and told him that love could not be sought out. People who went looking for love couldn’t find it. When love was ready, it sat down at your kitchen table, grabbed your hand, and asked what you wanted for breakfast. 

“Eddie,” he said, so quiet he could barely hear himself over the waves, over the swelling sound of their new home, nestled deep within each other. “I love you.” The words fell out of him. They landed gently on Eddie’s cheeks, on his soft, pink mouth, on his huge brown eyes. 

Eddie stared at him. His eyes snagged on Richie’s sharp sharp cheekbones and the hard slope of his nose, the plush red of his mouth. This man, twenty-two and six feet tall and so pretty, this man with paint under his nails and laced through his hair, loved him. “God, I love you, too.”

Richie grabbed his waist in a bruising grip and pulled him close, their bodies flush together. He tucks his face into the junction of Eddie’s neck and shoulder, pressed his nose into the wetsuit that smells of sea salt and sweat and the organic honey shampoo Eddie has taken to using. His skin and hair were damp with the fog curdling the condensation in the air and Richie wants to be closer, to be more. 

Eddie’s face pressed insistently against the side of his head and his hands cradled Richie’s head, buried themselves in his hair and tugged, gently. 

“Marry me.” Eddie’s voice is soft and sure. He knows Richie’s answer. He knows because he whispered it to him as the tattoo artist laid the gun on his back, three magnolias sketched across his back. He told him that he’d marry him one day, and Richie had winced through the initial drag of the needle and then kissed the corner of Eddie’s mouth, very softly, and said ‘I think I’m okay with that.’ 

Richie froze, for a moment, and then he was moving again, dragging his mouth along Eddie neck and up his jaw, to lay three long, wet, sucking kisses on Eddie’s mouth, licking over his lower lip and nipping gently. “Okay.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes and bit Richie’s chin. “Asshole.” 

But Richie looked at him with something dark and bright and happy and startling in his eyes and kissed Eddie one more time, leaning forward to suck at his mouth. And then he was darting away, scooping up his board and running for the crashing waves, for the foam and the unpredictable swish and hum of the ocean. 

“Catch me if you can, Spaghetti-man!” 

“Richie!” 

And Eddie chased after him. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks so so much for all the love on the first part of this series - come chat with me/prompt me on tumblr ay gay-for-roxane and i love you love you


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